


My Achilles

by The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, I'm off the deepend guys, Just look at those charachter tags, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mutual Pining, No Character Death, None you hear me, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2019-01-25 11:58:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12530820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting/pseuds/The_Girl_Who_Got_Tired_of_Waiting
Summary: The bullets go wide of their intended mark, but they find a target all the same.---Drummond is shot but DOES NOT DIE. Alfred helps him on the road to recovery, and on the road to figuring out their relationship.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starknight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starknight/gifts).



> I never planned to write for this fandom. Ever. And then THAT episode happened and yeah, nah we're not having that. Time to get a shovel and start unburrying those gays. 
> 
> This story was partly prompted by Starknight's wondrous fic But Never Doubt I Love which has been giving me life and dragging me out of the Bitter Barn the last episode put me in. 
> 
> And yes, I know I should be working on Indestructible Iron and I am! The season 2 finale just wiped everything else out of my brain.

Someone grabs the gun just as it’s fired once and then again in the struggle. The shots go wide of their intended mark, but they still find a target. Edward Drummond pushes the prime minister aside but can’t quite get out of the way himself. Pain erupts in his right shoulder, and then again in his leg. He staggers, trying and failing to stay on his feet and ends up sprawled on the pavement. He pulls his left hand away from where it is instinctively clasped over his shoulder and tries again to brace himself from falling further. His hand just slips across the ground, and he can’t work out why it is so slick, until he realises it’s his own blood coating his hand. People are screaming, still fighting with whoever has just shot him, but he is almost unaware of this. The only thing he can think of is that, not very far away, Alfred is sitting at a table in a restaurant, waiting for him. Alfred will think he’s decided not to show up. That the letter still tucked inside Edward’s coat means nothing. He’s going to die and Alfred will always be waiting for him.

“Drummond? Dummond!”

Robert Peel’s voice cuts through the chaos and, familiar as it is, Edward focuses on it. He concentrates and wills his vision to clear until he finds Peel, who is kneeling beside him. He’s half holding Drummond, applying pressure to his wounds. His face is pale. His eyes are wide and his mouth still hangs open in shock. Such raw emotion, Edward has never seen it on the prime minister before. It’s almost comical.

“Drummond, stay with me. Speak to me.”

And Edward would, except, the only word that comes to his mind right now is Alfred’s name. And he doesn’t think that saying another man’s name when you’re dying, and engaged, is really accepted.

* * *

Things get a little muddled after that. For a while, Edward drifts. He is in blackness. In nothingness. The only things anchoring him to reality are two bright, hot points of pain searing through him. When he next becomes aware of his surroundings, he is lying down and people are bending over him, poking him, prodding him. Someone touches his right leg and he screams. He tries to fight them off but more hands hold him down while a calm voice tells him, “Relax, Mr Drummond. You’re in the best place. We are trying to help you.”

He’s not sure if he believes the voice because for a while after that the pain just seems to get worse and worse. Even when that does eventually subside, his brain is filled with thick, stifling smog. He cannot piece together rooms and faces to make places and people. At one point, he thinks Peel is back with him, leaning over him and talking to him once more. He sees a figure behind Peel, raising an arm. He sees the metallic tip of a gun and tries to shout a warning. He tries to raise his arms to push Peel aside again, but he no longer has the strength. And anyway, the scene soon shifts back to blackness.

A while later and he is sure, quite impossible though it is, that the queen is there. She cries silently and strokes his forehead until her face morphs into that of his fiancé. Guilt stabs at Edward like a freshly opened wound while Florence sobs and sobs above him. Guilt because he has upset her. Guilt because she is, really, a nice girl and she should not be wasting her tears on someone who for so long now has viewed their relationship as nothing but an inconvenience. Guilt because, even now, he wishes she were not there. Her sobbing is giving him a headache. And still he has not seen the one face he wishes to.

* * *

When Edward is next awake, it is night time again. Or still. He isn’t exactly sure how much time has passed. Everything still seems muffled, but less distant and dreamlike than it did before. He is, for the moment, without pain. Instead he is treated to a kind of all over numbness, reminiscent of the sensation which comes directly before a vicious bout of cramp in a limb when one has been sat still for too long. He looks down at his body to check it is still there. His right leg is propped up and appears twice its normal size, swaddled as it no doubt is in bandages. His shoulder is in a similar state. But he is, more or less, intact.

It is dark and quiet, just the moon filtering in through the window and weak lamplight to illuminate the scene in his room. But Edward finds that it is not his room. The room he is lying alone in is not familiar. He turns his head to one side and sees that the door has been left ajar. He can just make out the beginning of a row of beds in the adjoining room. There is the sound of distant, muffled voices, a faint clinking squeaking sound as a trolley is pushed along a corridor.

He is in hospital. Which of course makes sense. 

Someone in the next room is groaning in pain. Edward is glad that he has his own room at least. He supposes that working directly for the prime minister has some benefits. That and foiling an assassination attempt. 

There is a sudden sound from over by the window. A soft moan which makes Edward startle in the otherwise hushed room. He turns, awkward and boneless in his numbness, getting tangled in the sheets. He is not quite as alone in this room as he first thought. There are no other beds, but there is a single chair, pulled up to the window. The man sitting in it has fallen asleep with his head resting against the glass and, with the moonlight behind, Edward can make out a profile he would know anywhere.

Lord Alfred Paget is asleep in Edward’s hospital room. Weak light catches at blond hair and pale skin, giving the other man an ethereal, almost ghost-like appearance. Edward muses that it is a good thing that he is in hospital, for he is sure his heart has stopped beating. Either he has forgotten how very beautiful Alfred is (impossible) or he has grown more so since Edward last saw him. Edward has spent endless hours wondering how it might feel to wake up to look upon Alfred’s sleeping face. This is not the scenario he would have chosen, but he will take it.

Alfred whimpers softly again. Edward realises, with a twist to the gut, that Alfred’s face is marred with pain which has no right in being there.

“Alfred,” Edward tries to call, but it comes out slurred and jumbled. More like, “Alfreyg.” Which isn’t right. He tries again, then gives up on talk and decides on action. Favouring his left side with all of the weight he can he heaves himself to the edge of the bed and gets to his feet. Or tries to. It is less a step, more a stumble which pulls the sheets with him and leaves him on the floor yet again. Pain breaks through his haze. The right hand side of his body is pulsating with sharp throbs of hurting but he finds he does not care.

Alfred comes awake quickly. He jumps upright and with panicked eyes scans the bed and then Edward’s form beside it. He blinks, still sleep addled and trying to make sense of what he is looking at, while Edward hooks his good arm onto the mattress and attempts once more to heave himself upright. He manages it about as successfully as a newborn colt on ice.

“Drummond,” Alfred whispers in barley more than a breath. “Edward. What are you doing?”

“I... I need. Needed... You. To be with... you,” Edward gasps and slurs, his tongue as heavy as lead in his mouth. The room spins. None of this feels quite real and settled yet. “Looked...sad.”

Alfred laughs brokenly, uncertainly. “I looked... sad? You’re getting out of bed after being shot, because I _looked sad_?”

Alfred is still much too far away; the space between them could be an ocean. Edward tries to put pressure on his right leg and discovers swiftly what a mistake that is. The uncanny numbness is receding rapidly, leaving his leg on fire. His shoulder isn't far behind eithre.

Alfred lurches towards him, catching him around the waist. Giving up on the bed, and his own legs, Edward allows his full weight to be taken. Try as he might, Alfred cannot support them both. He sits heavily, cradling the other man as one would a child.

“You’re badly hurt,” he whispers, urgently. “You need to be resting. In bed. I’ll fetch a doctor-”

“No!” Edward cuts him off, clutching at the other man’s shirt. “Not yet. Stay.”

“You’re injured. Not just injured, shot.”

“Please. Just a moment. I need...just one moment.” Between the pain, and the after effects of whatever they’ve given him, Edward is struggling to maintain his senses. He is scared that at any moment this will all fade. Another minuet and Alfred might slip away, morph into a stranger, or else just blackness again.

Alfred sighs but, to Edward’s relief, pulls him closer. “Very well. But only for a moment.” He shifts their positioning, so that Edward is propped against his chest. He says nothing more but he brings one hand up to encase the back of the other man’s head. He strokes gently for a while, soothing both of them.

 

Alfred knows he is being foolish and sentimental. He should be insisting on getting  a doctor, or a nurse, someone who might be able to help Edward with the pain and get him settled back on the bed where he should be. Alfred himself does not need to be a medical expert to know that crawling about on the floor a day or so after potentially life threatening injuries is ill advised. But he is weak. He has been needing this as much as Edward had. The panic and dread he has been feeling every moment since he heard about the shooting - heightened still further by waking to an empty bed and the sight of Edward doing yet more damage to himself -  is at last starting to wane. A final glance at the door to make sure they are not being observed, and he throws what little caution he has left to the wind. Slowly, carefully, he lowers his own head so that he can brush his lips across Edward’s forehead, the bridge of his nose and then, fleetingly, his lips. Edward, internally cursing himself for the fool that he is, has his eyes closed at that moment and even though they snap open at the first contact, Alfred has already moved back. The kiss is so brief, so gentle, the quietest whisper of a kiss ever formed. Perhaps, even, it is one that he imagined.

Fingers twine in Edward’s hair and tangle just slightly. Sure and steady and real. When he looks up, he can see that Alfred is smiling, albeit weakly.

“Better,” he mumbles. “Much better.” He reaches up to touch the corner of that smile, but finds the agony in his shoulder too much. Whatever drug he had been given is well and truly wearing off now.

Edward inhales deeply to offset the pain and then frowns. He can smell something aromatic, sweet. This close up it is cloying to him.

“Why do you smell like champagne?”

Alfred huffs out a short laugh. It is a precious sound to Edward, beyond music. “I was at the restaurant, when I heard the news. When I heard that you’d been shot. I knocked over a glass.”

“Oh. That was... careless of you.”

“Yes. Very foolish indeed.” Alfred’s shoulders are shaking as he embraces Edward tighter. Hopefully it is out of mirth, not tears. He brings his lips close to Edward's ear. “Now back to bed, you _ridiculous_ man.”

Edward would like to protest, would like to stay here a little longer, kept safe and secure in the arms of the man he has wanted for so long. But he has spent what little energy he has. He lets darkness claim him again for a while.


	2. Chapter 2

Come the morning, Edward is not sure how much of the previous night was a dream. When the doctor arrived he had been given laudanum and the effects left him floating and woozy and then sick in a way that made him think he would rather just take the pain. He made a silent vow to take no further medication for the duration of his hospital stay, no matter how unpleasant his injuries.

In a contrast to last night, it is now much too bright in his room, sunlight steaming in to irritate his eyes and make his brain throb almost as badly as his leg or his shoulder. He scowls and grumbles at the nurse who checks his bandages and then at the doctor who examines him. Alfred (who is really there, is still there, standing by his bed, watching) finds this all highly amusing.

“Are you always such a horrible patient?” he teases, as the doctor listens to Edward’s chest with a stethoscope and Edward hisses at the coolness against his skin.

“I do not know. I do not recall ever being in hospital before.”

“Perhaps that is something we can all be thankful for,” the doctor responds lightly as he finishes his work and rearranges the sheets back over Edward. He continues to talk while making notes on Edward’s condition. “You have been exceedingly lucky, Mr Drummond. Many men have bled to death in a matter of minutes from wounds not dissimilar to the one on your leg. Your shoulder, too, could have been far nastier than it is. You have two deep wounds and there will be some scarring, naturally. It will be some time before you can walk properly again. But there is only minimal damage to the bone in both places.”

There is a sharp intake of breath as Alfred steps forward. His face is suddenly serious, all hint of teasing gone. “Damage to the bone? Will he... will he heal?”

The doctor smiles reassuringly and clasps a bracing hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “He should make a good recovery, given time. And plenty of rest.” The last said with a very firm look at Edward, which makes him feel rather like a scolded schoolboy. At least Alfred has the decency to look shamefaced.

“I am sorry about last night,” he apologises on Edward’s behalf. “He panicked I think, upon waking. I don’t think he knew where he was.”

The doctor waves him off good naturedly as he returns to his notes. “Not to worry. He won’t be the first to react badly when coming out of sedation. Visions and hallucinations are not uncommon, particularly after a traumatic event. Although Mr Drummond’s reaction does seem a little... extreme, shall we say?” He pauses to look up at Edward with that same reprimanding look as before.  “Your cousin has been most concerned with your health. You would do well not to worry him further.”

Edward opens his mouth to protest that he had not been deliberately trying to worry anyone - he had not asked to be shot – before the doctor’s words fully sink in. _Cousin_?

Edward’s mouth stays open without being able to form words for a few moments. “My... He is not...” he begins, but Alfred is making wild, panicked movements behind the doctor’s back. Edward’s confused gaze lands upon him. Alfred is shaking his head and raising his eyebrows significantly high, the normally pale man blushing crimson. He looks beseechingly at Edward, silently imploring him. Edward decides to follow his lead. 

“He...is not to worry anymore,” Edward amends quickly.

“Not if you continue to follow orders and _rest_.”

“I-I’ll make sure that he does,” Alfred vows, trying to regain himself.

“Good. Tie him down if you have to,” the doctor suggests jokingly.  

Edward can feel heat rising to his own face at that remark.  He doesn’t even dare look at Alfred this time.

The doctor closes his folder of notes with a snap, oblivious to their discomfort.  “I’ll be back later on today to check on him. If his condition changes in the meantime, alert one of the nurses. Good day, gentlemen.”

Alfred follows the doctor to the door and ensures it is shut behind him. He leans his back against the door and sighs heavily, rubbing one hand across his face, weak and still near purple with embarrassment. He raises his fingers enough to look sidelong at Edward and, as soon as their gaze meets, they begin to laugh.

It doesn’t matter about the pain, or the light-headed feeling Edward is still experiencing. He splutters with giggles, trying desperately to control himself. The last thing they want is the doctor coming back to see what all the hilarity is about. Between bursts of laughter, they both fight to speak.

“I thought he was never going to leave.”

“I didn’t know where to look when he said...that.”

“I’m just glad he didn’t suspect anything.”

“He thought we were cousins?” This seems especially funny to Edward, right up until his shoulder jars and he yelps in pain, hunching up.

Alfred is at his bedside in an instant, his face tight with worry. He rests one hand on Edward’s back and rubs soothingly until the injured man can straighten out again. Edward does his best to brush off his concern. “I’m fine, fine. I just... should be resting, right?” He tries for a grin. Alfred does smile back weakly, but the worry does not leave him. He continues to rest his hand on Edward’s back, but he is avoiding looking right at him, biting at his bottom lip.

“I... I told the doctor that we are cousins,” Alfred admits, tentatively.

“What?” Edward splutters with new found mirth again, surprised when Alfred seems to be deadly serious about this. “Why on earth would you do that?”

 “Well... What else was I supposed to tell him? How else was I to explain that I had to be here, that I couldn’t leave your side? I... Oh do stop laughing, Edward! I told him that I’m your cousin and that I’m here to watch over you and report back to your mother and your fiancé because they both found it too upsetting to be here.”

That sobered Edward somewhat.

“Oh. That was good thinking, I suppose.” He hesitates for a moment. “Have they been here then? My mother and... and Florence?”

“Not your mother. She took the news badly. She’s too ill to travel but sent word to say that she will be visiting as soon as she’s recovered enough.”

Edward nods. His mother has always been frail, even when he was a child. It’s understandable that news of her son being shot would affect her so. There are few more moments of heavy silence before he presses again. “And Florence?”

Alfred drops his hand from Edward’s back. “Don’t you remember?” he asks, quietly.

“I can only recall moments,” Edward says, cautiously. He cannot help but wonder if some awful scene has occurred while he was unaware. Did he say something while he was half conscious? “Everything in my head is a blur right now. At one point, I thought the queen was here.” He half laughs, expecting Alfred to join in again. He doesn’t.

“But she was here,” says Alfred, as though this much should be obvious. 

“She was? What on earth for?”

Alfred blinks at him, like he’s quite taken leave of his senses. “You were shot, while protecting the prime minister. I think a royal visit might be in order, don’t you?”

“I suppose I hadn’t thought about it,” Edward admits. It had all seemed so unlikely that Edward had dismissed it as nothing but a delirious dream. There were certain other elements of last night which he has also been doing his best to dismiss. Like the brush of Alfred’s mouth against his own. If the queen had truly sat beside him, then perhaps that faint almost kiss had been true too. He savours that thought like honey on his tongue.

 “You didn’t answer my question,” he says eventually. “What about Florence?”

Alfred leaves Edward’s side and walks over to the window to look out. When he turns back, Edward can see that he is biting his lip again. It is a movement that makes Edward want to follow suit. He wants to grab hold of Alfred and lick and bite and suck at that bottom lip until he has the other man writhing.

“Yes. Florence was here.”

Edward’s insides, which had seemed so delightfully warm just a moment ago, now feel plunged into ice. “You... you met her, didn’t you?” Alfred nods, looking towards the window again. “And... what did you think of her?” 

Edward wants to cut out his own tongue as soon as he has said it. He has no idea what possessed him to ask such a question of Alfred, of all people.

Only, isn’t that what men are meant to ask when their friends meet their fiancé?

Only, of course, Alfred isn’t a friend.

Edward would not blame Alfred if he gave no response at all.

“It’s hard to say,” says Alfred, voice stiff and formal in a way it hasn’t been with Edward in weeks. Months. “It’s difficult to get a good judge of a person when they are crying the whole time you’re with them. When she kept hovering over you and sobbing and-” Alfred breaks off his bitter tone and shakes his head. “No. No, that’s cruel of me.” Then, proving once and for all that he is by far the strongest man Edward knows, he looks up and speaks directly to Edward, truthfully. “Honestly, Edward, she seemed like a lovely girl. Any man would be lucky to have her as a wife.”

“Yes,” Edward agrees. “Any man who truly wanted her.”

“And you don’t?” It is so hesitant, so questioning and hopeful that Edward wishes more than ever that he could walk. He has a good mind to ignore doctor’s orders and common sense, to drag himself out of bed again just so he can go and hold Alfred in his arms.

“Of course I don’t want her. You know that.”

“I don’t know what I know anymore. I haven’t for a long time. Not since I met you.” It is a declaration which Edward thinks might hide another. “You _should_ want her. She is pretty, I suppose, and kind. She was highly concerned about you. And... And...”

“And yet it is not love that I feel for her, not of that kind. I care for her as one might a little sister. It is someone else that I love.”

Alfred stares at Edward without moving, so still he is almost holding his breath. “You... you do?”

Edward nods. “I do.”

“Even if that person was a fool, and tried to tell you how you should live your own life?”

Edward chuckles at that. “Yes.”

“Even though you perhaps shouldn’t? Though it could ruin your life?” Alfred mumbles, so softly Edward can hardly hear. Why must Alfred always be on the other side of a room when he looks so sad?

“Yes. Even if all of that were true, which I don’t believe it is. Now come here; I can’t chase after you like this.”

Alfred obeys. He walks over to Edward’s bed and, when the other man offers his hand, his takes it in his, perching carefully on the edge of the mattress. They both glance towards the door but it remains shut. Out in the main ward, the nurses are too busy and the patients too ill to look in on them.

They remain that way for a while. They do not dare do anything more, but this is – almost – enough for Edward. The warmth of Alfred’s hand in his. The way their palms fit together. He brushes a fingertip over Alfred’s wrist and can feel the pulse of blood there and Alfred shivers at the touch.

Edward keeps looking at Alfred’s mouth. He thinks about Scotland, and the way the light had fallen on Alfred beside the lake. He thinks of the taste of whisky and how it had been enhanced when they kissed, the flavour still clinging to Alfred’s tongue. The memory makes Edward bold.

“I wasn’t lying before, when I said I can’t remember much about the last two days. Since I was...” He cannot bring himself to say the words ‘I was shot’. They seem awfully melodramatic, even if they are true. “I think I remember last night though. When I got out of bed.”

“Which we have already established was foolish and which you will not be repeating any time soon,” Alfred scolds him, without heat. Edward might normally have been tempted into a playful response but this is important and he needs to say it.

“I remember you... holding me.” Alfred casts a nervous look around them, as though the room may suddenly have been invaded by a host of onlookers. Edward carries on regardless. “I recall, no I _think_ I recall, you kissing me. Or am I misremembering things?”

Alfred blushes more furiously than ever at these words. He shakes his head. “No. No you’re not misremembering.” Then, quite bizarrely, he adds, “I am sorry.”

“You’re apologising?”

“Yes. I feel I may have taken advantage of the situation. Of you being... not quite in your right mind. I realise that you might not have wanted that.”

Edward shakes his head in utter disbelief.  “Might not have wanted... and what about Scotland? Did you think I might not have wanted it then?”

“That was different. We were both quite aware of the situation. You were less than aware last night.”

“Alfred,” Edward says, very firmly. “What I said just now, about loving someone else, I meant it. I know that I am badly injured and in not an inconsiderable amount of pain. I came close to losing my life. Last night I was addled from whatever they had given me, but not so much that I couldn’t think clearly about that. Last night, along with Scotland, was probably one of the best memories of my life.”

Alfred is looking down at their joined hands. The pink flush of embarrassment or excitement is creeping right the way down his neck. Edward would like to pull aside his collar and trace it with his lips, just to see how far it goes. “You cannot just say things like that, Edward.”

“And why ever not? No one is around to hear, are they?”

“No. But it makes me want to pin you to this bed and do it all over again.”

“Well. I certainly would not be objectionable to that.”

“Your doctor might be. As might any of the nurses who might look in on us at any moment.”

“Oh, don’t remind me,” groans Edward, letting his head fall back against the pillows. “All the prodding and poking. Can they not just leave me be for a while?”

“You should rest,” suggests Alfred. “Perhaps you will be a better patient once you have had some more sleep.”

“Perhaps,” Edward concedes.

“I should leave you to it then. I should return to the palace, actually.”

“Oh. Have you not been to the palace then?” Edward thinks back to last night again, the smell of champagne still on Alfred’s clothes. “Alfred! Do you mean to say you haven’t been to the palace or rested or... or... changed your clothes in... in..”

“Two days,” Alfred confirms.

“Two days! I am surprised the queen hasn’t sent out a search party for you.”

“She knows where I am. She is making allowances for my absence, I believe. She knows that I am watching over you and that I am reporting back to your mother and to Florence. Just like I told the doctor.”

“Well then, you should go.” It is not truly what Edward wants at all, but the thought of Alfred watching over him without rest or comfort for so long is weighing heavy on his conscience. “Go back to the palace and bathe and change your clothes and attend to your duties there. The queen will appreciate your presence, I am sure.”

“I can’t just leave you,” says Alfred. “What if something happens while I am gone?”

“Nothing is going to happen. I am well enough now for you to leave me for a few hours. And when you do return here, I am sure I will appreciate your presence a lot more if it is cleaner and sweeter smelling.”

“I do not smell!” yelps Alfred, mock appalled at the insinuation.

“Just a little bit.” Edward shrugs, then winces at the movement in his shoulder. “I’ll be fine!” he says when he sees Alfred start forwards. “Now go. I’ll be waiting for you when you return. I am not going anywhere.”

He truly means it, too. He will not go anywhere, so long as he knows his Alfred will be returning to him.

* * *

On his walk back to the palace, Alfred cannot decide if he wants to sing or cry. Edward is alive. Shot twice, but alive and that is little short of a miracle. When he had gone to the hospital, in a haze of disbelief, it had been expecting the worst. At the time he had been silently praying that Edward would hold on just long enough for him to get there. Long enough for him to say... 

But he doesn’t need to. Because Edward is fine. Well, maybe not just yet. But he will be, Alfred is sure of that. He is so proud of Edward. There are few men who would take a bullet to save another the way Edward had. And then to battle through and come out the other side more or less in one piece. It is a swelling, happy feeling inside of his chest, a sunlit bubble of joy which keeps him warm all the way home. Even as the left over worry and shock is creeping in at him, making his legs ever so slightly wobbly.

He needs to rest. In his own bed, not in the chair he had managed to gain a few fretful hours of sleep in. He needs to eat something. He plans to go straight to his rooms when he arrives at the palace. He will send word to the queen, apologising for his continued absence, but he is no fit state to greet her like this. His clothes are crumpled and stiff on his body, shirt and jacket still stained with champagne as Edward so helpfully reminded him. His hair is sticking up wildly from all the times he has ran his fingers through it.

All things considered it will be much better if he just remains by himself for a few hours and makes his excuses later. Which is why it is a not altogether pleasant shock when he encounters the entire royal party almost as soon as he enters the palace.  

“Lord Alfred!” The queen calls out, making Alfred startle out of his thoughts. He looks up and takes in the scene in front of him. The queen and Prince Albert are clearly getting ready to ride out, joined by a group which includes Duke Ernest, Lady Harriet and Wilhelmina. Not exactly the quiet, unseen entrance Alfred had been hoping for.

“Your majesty,” he greets, bowing formally to her. “I must ask that you forgive my appearance. I have only just now returned from the hospital.”

“Of course.” The queen steps closer. “How is Drummond? Does he live?”

Alfred looks at her soft, concerned face. He often forgets how very young, and how kind the queen is. “He lives,” he reassures her. It reassures himself too to say it aloud. “He is awake, in fact and expected to make a good recovery.”   

There are audible noises of relief from everyone present. Lady Harriet beams at Alfred. Alfred does not miss the way that Ernest gives her arm a soft, comforting squeeze. The prince goes to Victoria and kisses her chastely on the forehead.

“I told you, Toria, that all would be well,” he intones, softly. When he speaks to the queen in this way, Alfred cannot help but feel as though he is intruding.  

“But he was shot. Shot, Albert! Outside of parliament, of all places. It is unheard of.”

“Yes, but he will survive, and his attacker is caught. You should let that be a comfort to you,” the prince says, rubbing her back in a way that is reminiscent of how Alfred soothed Edward not so very long ago.  

“You are right,” the queen says, firmly. She straightens her shoulders a little in a way that Alfred has noticed she often does when she is attempting to appear strong.  “The news came as a terrible shock to me. To us,” she tells Alfred. “And so soon after Vicky’s illness.”

“That’s understandable.” All thoughts of the royal family and their sick child had been chased out of Alfred’s head entirely, but he does his best not to let that much show. “And how is the princess fairing now?”

“She is greatly improved,” the queen replies with a smile. “Far better than anyone expected. Much like Drummond.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Alfred means it. Today just seems to be one of those lucky, happy days where things go right. Where people survive and recover from things they perhaps shouldn’t. “If you’ll excuse me, Majesty, I should retire to my rooms. I need to smarten myself up considerably.”

“Of course.” The queen steps to one side and gestures to her entourage to take their leave while she has a final few words with Alfred. “I would like to speak to you later, Lord Alfred. When you are perhaps a little more fit for company.”

Alfred nods and promises to report to the queen’s study later that day. He does not notice Wilhelmina hanging back from the others and then drawing closer to him until she speaks.

“Lord Alfred,” she says from right beside him. “You must be exhausted.” Then she tries to touch his hand. Alfred tries to hide his wince of pain and draws back quickly. But not quickly enough.

“Lord Alfred?” Victoria enquires while Wilhelmina catches hold of his sleeve and pulls his hand up to where she can clearly see. Alfred would dearly like to kick himself. He had managed to keep his hand away from Edward all the time he had been at the hospital, but can manage less than five minutes at the palace. It is so much easier to keep something from someone who cannot move from their bed.

“You’re hurt,” says Wilhelmina, cupping his hand in both of hers.

“It is nothing,” he says, quickly, trying to pull away. Wilhelmina holds on to his wrist.

“It does not look like nothing.” She takes hold of the handkerchief he had knotted swiftly around his hand and pulls. She gasps as his flesh comes into view. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m not bleeding,” says Alfred, truthfully. The bleeding stopped several hours ago. “It is just a scratch, nothing to fret over.”

“It looks a little more than just a scratch,” the queen says, stepping forwards now too. Her own hands flutter like the wings of a baby bird before resting alongside Wilhelmina’s. “You’re cut.” It is an odd sensation to have his hand held and examined so closely by two women at the same, one of them being the queen of all people. Their concern is touching if somewhat misplaced

Victoria tuts at him as though he is one of her children and then turns to call over her shoulder. “Albert!”

This is too much for Alfred. He tries again to extricate himself from the women’s touch as the prince returns to his wife’s side. Victoria ignores his slight squirming and holds out his hand for Albert to cast judgment upon. He frowns at the sight of Alfred’s palm, the three long cuts now indeed starting to ooze a little blood again, now that the makeshift bandage has been removed. The prince makes a soft noise, of surprise or worry, when he sees it.

“How did this happen?” he asks.

 Alfred does his best not to sigh in front of both royals. He knows there will be little chance of avoiding their questioning.

“I knocked over a glass,” he explains, giving the full story he omitted from Edward. “I didn’t look when I put my hand back down on the table.”

“Do you need to see a doctor?” Albert asks. “Did you not just come from a hospital?”

“I did not want to trouble them. It seemed... so trivial,” he confesses. There is more tutting and worrying all round at this announcement.

“Your majesty,” says Wilhelmina, suddenly speaking up again. “If you will excuse me, perhaps I should stay behind with Lord Alfred. I can make sure his hand is attended to.”

The queen at last releases him, nodding. “A good idea, I think. Make sure that it is seen to. I think you and I both know how stubborn men can be.”

The prince rolls his eyes a little and draws the queen closer to him as both Wilhelmina and Alfred take their cue to leave. Alfred allows himself to be steered along by the young woman. His thoughts are already back at the hospital, and wondering how many hours it will now be before he can again make his excuses to leave the palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very little in the way of plot progression, I fear, but our boys needed to have a little heart to heart. There is a plot planned for this. I just could do with a little fluff and comfort first.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred may not be at Drummond's side, but his thoughts remain at the hospital. And some understanding comes his way, even if he doesn't fully recognise it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've heard the rumours of how the Christmas special might go down and, if its true, let's just say I am officially done with the show. It's not just upsetting, it's insulting. BUT I am sure as heck not done with this fandom, or this couple in particular. I'll just take them to play in my own sandbox.

“When was the last time you ate, Lord Alfred?”

Alfred has to think about this for a moment. He hadn’t eaten dinner that night at Ciros, had only been lingering to drown his sorrow. And then at the hospital he had not left Edward’s side. A nurse had taken pity on him and given him some fruit, the first afternoon, and then some bread when she had next been working the following day. Alfred had not finished either.

“I... have eaten a little,” he says, before adding truthfully, “I could not say I have had much appetite.”

Wilhelmina does not glance up from her task, but shakes her head a little. “If he is worth half the honour you place upon him, he would not thank you for this.”

Alfred can feel himself growing cold at the insinuation behind her words. “I-I do not know what you mean.”

“Yes you do.” Then she pulls the thread tighter and Alfred winces in pain. “Sorry. But not about what I said. Mr Drummond will not be wanting you to starve yourself on his behalf. Or to injure yourself and then just leave it to bleed for two days. ”

“It has not been bleeding the whole time.”

“Just intermittently.”

“Yes. And,” Alfred shifts uneasily, already pained at the words he is about to speak, “And it is not my concern whether Drummond would thank me or not. I do not... do these things for him.”

“I think you do everything for him.” Wilhelmina looks up at him hesitantly, watching his response. “Was that over stepping a mark?”

“Yes!”

“Scissors, please.”

Alfred passes her the sewing scissors as she ties off the thread. She cuts it and cleans off the needle before rethreading. Still one more cut to go. She runs her fingers either side of the cut firmly, pressing and squeezing gently in a way that makes Alfred hold his breath. She had done the same with both of the previous cuts; checking for glass or dirt in the wound, she had said. Once satisfied that the wound is clear, she taps Alfred’s wrist with her left hand, a wordless warning to brace himself before she dips the needle into his flesh again, making a new stitch. Alfred has always thought of himself as a man able to take a small amount of pain but he stifles a gasp now.

“I am sorry, again,” says Wilhelmina, before chiding, “You know this would have probably been a great deal easier if you had not left it so long before seeking help.”

“I do not recall seeking help at all,” Alfred grumbles. He might be as bad a patient as Edward.

“Oh, a fine defence. And how would you explain to Mr Drummond if you grew ill from one of these cuts which you gained on his behalf?”

“I do not know,” Alfred lies, trying to affect a casual, careless tone. “I do not believe it would be of great concern to him.”

“If that were true - stop squirming and hold still – if that were true, then he would truly be a terrible man, to care so little about his... friend.” She hesitates for just a fraction of a second before she says the word friend. Her eyes flick up to Alfred’s face, watching his expression.

Alfred does not reply and does his best to keep his expression blank. He does not say that, in truth, he knows exactly how Edward would respond. He would be devastated, to think of Alfred being hurt, and to think that it was in any way his fault might break him. Much the same as Alfred feels at the prospect of Edward hurt. He hopes that he is sleeping peacefully at the moment, and not awake and in pain.

Keen to steer the conversation away from himself and Edward, Alfred asks, “How did you learn to do this?” He flexes his fingers to indicate his hand.

“I have brothers, Alfred, as you know,” says Wilhelmina, apparently not minding the change of subject as she goes back to her work. “Many brothers. And they were always so keen on getting into scrapes when we were younger. It drove my parents to distraction. I would watch when they were being treated afterwards. Once you have seen half a dozen wounds be stitched up, you tend to get an idea of how these things work.” She smiles softly, as though the memory of seeing her brothers mildly afflicted is not exactly an unpleasant one. “I helped to set my youngest brother’s arm once, when he broke it falling off of his horse. Do you remember that day?”

Alfred nods. He and Wilhelmina had been friends since childhood and he had been there on the day her brother had fallen. He remembers well how calm Wilhelmina had been, while the other girls they had been with went to pieces.

“The doctor just said, ‘Here, girl, you can help,’ and then told me how to manipulate my brother’s arm into position and keep it there while he prepared the splint.” Alfred is surprised at the tone of pride in the usually meek woman’s voice. It occurs to him that this may be the longest he has ever heard Wilhelmina talk about herself.

“Did you... ever consider a profession as a nurse, Wilhelmina?”

She laughs, as though there is something very funny about the concept. “I do not believe my family would have approved of me going into such a... practical profession as nursing.”

“Do you really think they would object so strongly? Nursing is a noble path, to help people so. As you are helping me right now.” Alfred likes Wilhelmina, he truly does, and it seems a shame that she should be denied something she wants badly. Alfred knows all about that. “Your family may in fact be proud of you.”

She shakes her head. “I highly doubt that. Besides, it is not what I desire. Why should I be in want of that? To always be answerable to a man who is in charge simply because he was born male and therefore able to have better training than me?”

Realisation slowly sinks in. Alfred does his best not to sound so very surprised when he says, as a statement, not a question, “You want to be a doctor.”

“I did,” Wilhelmina corrects him. “When I was very young and still thought such things were possible for a woman.”

“Times are changing. We have a female monarch now,” Alfred reminds her unnecessarily. “Are female doctors still truly such a far flung idea?”

“I believe a female in charge of the country is enough change for one generation. Don’t you?” There is a wistful look in her eyes and she sighs quietly. “Times do not change quickly enough. For either of us, I think.”

Alfred swallows hard around the block of words in his throat. He wishes he could say something comforting or reassuring to Wilhelmina, but he is pretty sure that anything he could say would fall woefully short. He also knows he should say he doesn’t know what she means by ‘for either of us’, but the denial sticks in his chest.

“All done,” says Wilhelmina, cutting through his thoughts. She doesn’t use the scissors this time, but instead leans forwards to bite the thread off. She stays that way, bent low over Alfred’s hand, close enough that her lips are almost, almost, brushing against it. She looks up at him from under her eyelashes. All she would need to do is lean a little further and she would be kissing his palm.

“Err, Wilhelmina,” says Alfred, trying not to sound so very alarmed at this new situation he find himself in. “You know, I care for you very deeply but I do not... I do not...”

“Oh, do not trouble yourself.” She sits upright again and ties a knot in the thread quickly, efficiently. Perhaps just a little firmer than is necessary. “I know that you do not. That is what I have been trying to tell you. I know. I am aware that you-”

“I sincerely hope I _am_ interrupting.”

Alfred and Wilhelmina spring apart as though scalded. Wilhelmina stands up so quickly she knocks over the tray she has been using to lay out her sewing equipment. Alfred turns to the doorway, where the Duchess of Buccleuch is now standing, fixing them both with one of her infamous steely glares. Alfred wishes he could not look quite so guilty. It is not as though he and Wilhelmina had been doing anything they shouldn’t. Wilhelmina scampers about, trying to collect her things while stammering out a greeting to her aunt. She goes on to explain in a manner so stumbling and full of hesitation that Alfred is sure it will only confirm the Duchess’ suspicion.

“W-we were just... _I_ was just... helping Lord Paget. He injured his hand and I was merely... tending to the wound for him.”

“Is that so?” the Duchess replies, stiffly. “And would that not be better left to someone else? Not a young lady such as yourself?”

“I-I suppose...”

“I can assure you,” Alfred says, not liking to hear the way his friend has gone so quickly back into her shy self-consciousness, “Miss Coke has been doing a most excellent job of caring for me.” Wilhelmina throws him a quick look while the Duchess’ gaze is upon him, part grateful, part scared. Alfred smiles at her in what he hopes is a comforting manner. He is not about to reveal her secret desire. He only hopes that, if she truly does know of his, that she will repay the favour. “I should have sought help sooner, but I am afraid I was being quite stubborn and foolish. Miss Coke was very kind in her insistence to help me. And,” he adds, supposing he might as well do things properly, “she has been most efficient in doing so. Her needlework has always been something to be admired.”

“Indeed.” The Duchess sniffs contemptuously. Alfred is not sure if they have done anything to dissuade her assumptions, or if they have only raised them further. “Should you not both have something else to do now?”

Alfred and Wilhelmina gladly take their leave. As they exit the room, Wilhelmina meets his gaze again and smiles weakly at him. Balancing her tray in one arm and with a backwards glance to check the Duchess is not still observing them, she gives his good hand a quick, reassuring squeeze before they part ways.

* * *

While it is true that Alfred would have much rather remained at the hospital, he cannot deny that he feels a good deal more human an hour or two later. He has bathed and changed his clothes. He has eaten the food that was sent up for him, without him having asked for it (he suspects Wilhelmina’s hand in that and reminds himself to thank her again properly later). He is, in truth, exhausted and his bed is sorely tempting. He does sit, for a while, on the edge of his mattress, and considers taking off his shoes and lying down even if he does not sleep. But as soon as he starts to relax all of the thoughts he has been trying so hard to keep at bay come screaming in at him. Every moment since Edward was shot has been lived as though in a dream. The carriage ride there had taken what felt like hours, even though he had paid the driver double and asked him to go as quick as he possibly could. He knows realistically that is must have only taken ten, fifteen minutes at most, but each second had stretched out like a lifetime before him. A lifetime without Edward.

That thought sits heavy in Alfred’s mind. He can feel himself shaking despite the warmth of the fire in his room and he is sure that at any second he will start to do something truly terrible, like start crying. He is not sure if he will be able to stop if he does. The thought of living without Edward is unendurable – a hell more vivid and personal than any he has seen depicted in artwork, or heard about in church. Alfred would rather die himself than go on without Edward, he is sure.

He stands quickly and begins to pace his room, trying to physically dislodge the images from his thoughts. _There is no need for this,_ he tells himself. _Edward is alive. He is alive, and you have spoken to him and he is doing quite fine. Moreover than that he has told you, in no uncertain terms, once more how he does not love his fiancé. How he loves another. And you alone know who that is._

That last idea stirs something inside of Alfred. Similar to the warm, happy bubble he had felt on the way back to the palace but... more, somehow. Something deeper. It is a relief to know of Edward’s safety, and of his feelings. More than that though, the last is a pleasure Alfred does not think he has experienced before. He can feel his face reddening and he wishes he were not such a hopeless blusher.

It is not quite enough to keep the worry fully at bay. The myriad of concerns he still had, the ‘what ifs’ that could still happen, continue to nag away at him. Edward was still weak. He could easily catch some ailment or other and not be strong enough to fight it off. He could grow ill from one of his wounds. And what of his recovery? The doctor had said it could be a while before he could walk properly again; what if he did not recover? What if the damage was worse than they realised and he could not walk again? It would not affect how Alfred felt for him, but the impact it would have on Edward... it did not bare thinking about. There is even the thought, stupid though it is given that Edward was never the intended target, that his attacker might somehow come back for a second attempt. To finish what he had started.

All in all, Alfred is very glad when he hears the queen returning to the palace, and he once again has a good excuse to leave his room and seek out the company of someone else.

* * *

He finds the queen in her study, where she is already going through the boxes. He lingers in the doorway and knocks politely, even though the door is already open. She looks up and smiles when she sees it is him.

“Lord Alfred,” she greets him, warmly. “Do come in.” Alfred does so, moving to stand in front of her desk only for her to gesture towards a chair opposite her own. “Sit down, please.”

Alfred cannot help but be a little surprised. He has been working for the queen for some time now, but it is still not exactly common for him to be alone with her majesty. To sit at her desk with her, without the presence of even a servant in the room, seems oddly informal. Victoria puts down her papers once he is seated and looks straight at him, without distraction.

“How are you, Lord Alfred?”

“I am... quite well, ma’am.” He is still somewhat unsure of himself and how to react to the queen’s obvious concern.

“How is your hand?” she presses.

“It is fine,” he reassures her. “A minor injury.”

“May I see?”

Startled at the request, Alfred complies without comment. He stretches his hand across the desk for her and she peers at it critically for a moment, but without a hint of disgust. Why so many women are portrayed as fainting at the sight of injury is beyond Alfred.

“I see you’ve been well cared for,” the queen says, after a moment or two and Alfred draws his hand back.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Miss Coke did a splendid job of tending to me.”

“I am sure she did.” There is a playfulness to the queen’s smile that Alfred is unfamiliar with. It is rather like he is talking to a friend, wanting to share in on a private joke, rather than talking to the queen. “I am glad that you are well,” she continues. “I do not like to think of someone I am fond of being hurt. And of them trying to conceal it, too.”

“My apologies, ma’am. It was certainly not my intention to worry you.”

Victoria waves her hand dismissively. “It is fine. But tell me,” she leans forwards, taking on a softer tone, “how are you truly, Lord Alfred? You do not need to lie to me. I will not think any less of you. I know that this has all been a terrible shock for you.”

“A shock, ma’am?”

“Yes. Mr Drummond being shot.” Alfred winces despite himself. Victoria makes a soft, sympathetic noise. “It is all right. I know that you two are very close. It is perfectly normal for you to be upset by this; it is only normal. In fact, I would find it strange if you were not concerned.”  

“He is my friend,” Alfred says, carefully. “I care for him, and it is not pleasant to see someone you care for hurt, as you just said.”

“Of course. You are a true friend, to have spent so long watching over him. You must have been very concerned.”

“I did not wait there just for myself, ma’am,” Alfred says, hurriedly. “I did it for his family. So that I might report back to his mother, and to his... fiancé.” He silently congratulates himself for not spitting the word ‘fiancé’ how he wishes to.

“A true friend,” repeats Victoria. “Now, by all means, write to them.” She indicates the paper and ink pen placed out in front of Alfred. “Do it here, if you can, and I will ensure the letters are sent to them as soon as you are finished. You can reassure them that Drummond is doing well and make sure that they know that the man who did this is behind bars, and that he will receive the full justice due to him. You can also tell them,” she goes on, that same playful smile as before playing on her lips, “that Drummond will be most diligently watched over. I am relieving you of all but your most essential duties until he is sufficiently recovered enough that they may cease to worry about him.” 

“Your majesty!” Alfred cries. “That is not necessary, I assure you,” he says, even as the bigger part of his brain is just telling him to be quiet and accept the gift being given to him.

“Nonsense,” says Victoria, going back to the boxes, the matter apparently set already. “I am sure they will both feel much better knowing that someone Drummond knows personally is watching over him. How else will you be able to continue to report on his health?”

Alfred continues to stammer, trying to find some way to protest, or to at least thank her without giving away quite what this means to him. “I cannot-”

“Of course you can. Or do you wish to go against the orders of your queen?” There is definite teasing in her voice now. Feeling deeply unsure of himself, Alfred shakes his head.

“No, ma’am.”

“Good.” Victoria nods towards the writing paper again. “Go on. I am sure they are waiting to hear from you.”

So, with further thanks towards the queen, Alfred picks up the pen, dips it into ink and begins to write. His first letter is to Edward’s mother, whom Alfred has never met but whom he would like to if given the chance. The second, carefully, formally, he writes to Florence, whom he has met and whom – pleasant though she is – he hopes to never be in the same room as again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that I have probably changed Wilhelmina's charachter quite a bit from the show. But to be honest I wasn't overall sold on her to begin with. And things developed somewhat rapidly when I started writing this chapter and now quietly angry, feminist, born about a century ahead of her time Wilhelmina is one of my new favourite things. 
> 
> I also feel it should be said that while I am trying to keep things as historically accurate as possible in terms of content, I haven't done much research into the actual characters depicted, their families etcetera. But then, the show itself wasn't all that accurate in that respect. Let's just call it poetic licence. 
> 
> One final note and then I will shush: I'm going through a really tough time at the moment and, while I have every intention of using fic to distract and to continue to update this as regularly as possible, I apologise if I'm a little slow on things for a while. <3


End file.
